‘So you don’t think your uncle was unhappy playing second fiddle to your dad?’
‘Simon idolized my father.’ She wanted to say more, to make clear how inappropriate she thought his line of questioning was, and how unfounded, but the shock of the implication had robbed her of eloquence. Perhaps he picked up on her indignation anyway, because he paused, they both looked a little embarrassed, and then the inspector subtly shifted gears.
‘Our investigation’s centered at the moment on your father’s relatively complex business affairs. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we’ll stand a much higher chance of finding the murderers if we have complete access . . .’
Ella cut him off, saying, ‘You need to speak to my uncle about that.’ It was her way of saying that she trusted Simon completely, more than she trusted them.
‘But you’ll give us your permission?’ He was being vaguely confrontational and it irritated her. She didn’t care about the business, but they seemed to care about it more than they did the murders.
‘No, I’m sorry. That’s up to Simon too.’
‘But you do want us to find the people who killed your parents and brother.’
‘Nice try.’ She smiled, as if to make clear that she wouldn’t be a pushover. That’s clearly what they’d hoped, that they could use her innocence and her desperation. ‘And while we’re at it, I didn’t much appreciate seeing newspaper headlines describing them as gangland executions. My father wasn’t a gangster.’
Thorburn looked slightly hostile, his civility deserting him as he said, ‘I can assure you, we’ve said nothing about that to the press.’
‘Not directly, perhaps.’
‘Not at all.’ He stared at her, apparently mulling over whether or not it was worth asking any more questions. ‘Well, I think that’ll do for now. Thanks for your time.’ The hostility was still there, perhaps disappointment too, and Ella felt like they were already repositioning her in their scheme of things. Then, on what sounded like a point of principle, he said, ‘Even if your father had been a gangster, and I repeat that we have never implied that, we’d still be just as determined to find his killers.’
‘Not as determined as I am.’
He nodded, not in agreement but by way of acknowledging that they were done, and said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He stood up. ‘Your uncle has my number. If you think of anything, call me.’
Ella remained on the sofa after they’d gone, trying to take in what had happened. At some point in the last few days, between escorting her home and that interview, the police had shifted subtly along the axis from allies to adversaries. And as she defended her family’s reputation, she felt more like a criminal herself, looking upon the authorities with an inbuilt mistrust.
There was a knock on the door and Vicky Welsh came back in, smiling.
‘Hi. Look, sorry about Graham. The truth is, somebody in the police probably did drop a hint to the press. It’s a way of telling the public not to worry, but it isn’t fair on you.’ She handed her a piece of paper and said, ‘That’s my direct line and my mobile. If you need to talk to me or find out how things are going, just give me a call.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Keep hanging in there.’ She walked away but stopped again and turned before reaching the door. ‘Ella . . .’ She hesitated, as if unsure how to put her thoughts into words, then said simply, ‘Just be careful.’
‘I will.’
The police clearly had nothing to go on. They were thrashing around, looking at Simon as a suspect, getting hung up on the business side of things. Within a few weeks they’d probably think she’d been behind it herself.
Perhaps it was too early to dismiss their efforts, but she couldn’t bear the possibility of no one being caught. Someone out there right now had gone to their home and killed her family, and men had come for her in Italy, and someone out there had ordered those deaths, had paid the gunmen.
It filled her with poison to think that the people who’d done this were walking free, getting on with their lives. Within days she’d have to attend the funeral for the world she’d known, and in the back of her mind, beyond all the confused layers of grief, she’d be thinking of those persons unknown, laughing, eating, drinking.
Her dad hadn’t been a gangster, but right now she’d have forgiven him even that, because her own heart was full of more violence than his could have mustered. And that scared her, because if the police failed to bring anyone to justice she could see no outlet for that violence, and no one who could exorcise it from her.
Chapter Eight